


Help! I'm alive.

by scapegrace74



Series: Metric Universe [8]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:42:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scapegrace74/pseuds/scapegrace74
Summary: I’m doubtless going to regret saying this, but the Saorsa-sequel is coming along nicely, so I’m getting this Jamie POV story in the Metric universe out of my head and onto the screen.  It takes place about six months after Satellite Mind.The song by Metric that inspired the title and a few lines is here: https://youtu.be/ZoK63Bk7pgw
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Series: Metric Universe [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759669
Comments: 28
Kudos: 104





	Help! I'm alive.

In the months since they became roommates, Jamie felt he’d come to know Claire Beauchamp quite well. He wasn’t the world’s leading expert (that title likely belonged to Geillis), but he could give anyone in the London Metropolitan Area a run for their money.

He knew, for example, that she was never on time for anything. It didn’t seem to matter when she set her alarm, Claire always ran from their flat with her hair half-dried, a cereal bar tucked hastily into her purse, and a slipstream of manic energy trailing behind her.

She read ferociously, and many books at once. Flat surfaces collected still-lives of her textbooks, several novels, a poetry anthology - all dog-eared to mark her place. Some women shopped or went to the nail salon. Claire’s idea of stress relief was to curl up in her favourite corner of the sofa with a mug of tea and a good book.

She worked hard; harder than anyone he’d ever met. When she wasn’t on shift at the Royal London, she was attending her first year lectures in medicine. When she wasn’t at school, she was studying. And when she wasn’t studying, she was likely asleep. She slept like a rock dropped into deep water, often dozing off in front of the tele or at her desk. He wished he could carry her to her bed when this happened, just to offer her a glimpse of what life would be like if she permitted even the flimsiest pillar of support. It would have broken the terms of their tacit agreement, however, so he watched over her slumber, waking her only when absolutely necessary.

She loved eighties music, anything with a synthesizer and a beat. He could hear it, blasting from her headphones as she bent over her assignments or playing softly from the wireless speaker in the kitchen as she prepared dinner, her feet shimmying unconsciously over the hardwood floor.

She was a perfectionist. It didn’t matter the subject, she needed to excel at it. Soon after moving in, he caught her watching along to his rugby broadcast with a frown creasing her brow. “What is it?” he asked, curious. “Nothing. Just wondering why that wasn’t a foul.” Within weeks she had a favourite team (coincidentally, his team’s arch-rivals) and knew the players by position and name. Rugby nights when neither of them were working became a fixture in his calendar. A side-effect of this drive for perfection was that she took criticism unreasonably hard. A mentor at the hospital suggested she work on her suturing technique, and she sulked for an entire weekend, muttering profanities beneath her breath.

But for all his knowledge, Jamie couldn’t yet fathom why Claire had exiled romance from her life. She wasn’t a prude or particularly ascetic - she had a bawdy sense of humour, especially after a few drinks, and her aesthetic, though minimalist, had room for little self-indulgences. Nor did she appear conflicted about her sexuality - he’d caught her appreciative glances in his direction from time to time, usually when he was wearing his dark blue fireman’s uniform. While some might call her aloof, he saw deep rivers of compassion and generosity beneath her carefully detached exterior. When he made a joke (usually at his own expense), there was a flicker of self-awareness a moment after she laughed, as though she had caught herself breaking an unwritten rule.

Whatever the cause, Claire Beauchamp had locked away her heart for safe-keeping, and was doing her best to forget where she’d hidden the key.

That particular morning he’d taken advantage of a last-minute shift cancellation to go for a long run, following the Regents Canal towpath for miles before finally looping back through Whitechapel. It was unseasonably warm for September, and he entered the flat a soaking mess, toeing off his sneakers and stripping down to his boxer-briefs on his way to a well-deserved shower. Claire had lectures on Tuesday mornings, so he had the place to himself.

Pushing open the bathroom door, he was assaulted first by a fragrant mist that hung thickly in the air. Cherry blossom, his mind supplied, while his eyes strained to identify its source. Standing with one leg balanced on the bathtub’s edge, wearing nothing but a mint green towel (Christ, since when were towels so small!) was his roommate, applying lotion to her milk-white skin. They both froze. Traffic ceased its ceaseless crawl outside their building. The waters of the Thames stopped flowing. The universe itself took a break from its endless expansion and contraction as Jamie and Claire stared at each other in their tiny Spittalfields bathroom. 

“Sorry!” he exclaimed when he finally found his tongue, heavy and dry in his mouth, exactly where he left it. He backed slowly into the narrow corridor, his eyes never blinking until she was once again out of his sight. His heart was beating like a hammer, a runaway train confined within his ribs.

Claire eventually exited the bathroom, wearing the modest robe he was accustomed to seeing, instead of yards of extravagantly beautiful flesh. He was still in his boxer-briefs, struck dumb by shock, although some latent instinct of self-preservation had him pick up his sweaty top and hold it loosely in front of his groin.

“I had no idea ye were hame, Claire. I would ‘ave knocked a’fore openin’ the door... that is, I wouldna ‘ave opened the door, had I kent ye were in there,” he babbled.

“My morning lecture was cancelled,” she explained. “It’s fine, Jamie. No harm done, and nothing you haven’t seen before, I’d venture,” she smiled shyly.

“Aye. That is, nah! I mean, aye, but no’ you!” He trembled, wishing the ground would open up beneath his feet and eat him alive.

Claire giggled, but seemed reluctant to move. He needed to get into that shower while his blood was still flowing in his veins. Everything else, including his dignity, could wait. Why wouldn’t she move?

“Weel...” he began.

She laughed again. “Jamie, I can’t get past you. This hallway is too small and you’re too large. Your shoulders... your shoulders are too large!”

Grunting in acknowledgement, he pushed his sweaty back against the far wall. Claire scurried past him like a cornered animal.

Inside the bathroom, everything smelled like her. The mist that had touched her skin now settled on his own, like a second-hand caress. Already hard enough to pound nails, he bit into a fresh (really, preposterously small) mint green towel to stifle his groan.

Jamie Fraser now knew two more things about Claire Beauchamp. He knew what she looked like mostly naked, and he knew he’d never wanted anyone as much as her in his entire life.


End file.
